A
few years ago my journey down life's highway hit a pothole. Not just
an irritating bump or even a tooth rattling jar but rather a rip the
wheels off the vehicle and come to a screeching halt type of incident
thrust itself into my life. I was overwhelmed by a myriad of strange,
alien, confusing things called feelings I quickly concluded that I
was in desperate need of a tow truck.
After
I made an appointment I spoke to my psychologist about what was going
on. She calmly asked me my age and then looking at her watch she said
"Ahh yes... mid-life crisis....right on time." With an
extended period of moaning and whining and denial behind me, I was
hopeful that I could return to what I considered was my 'normal'
life. When I shared this with my counsellor she smiled kindly at me
and said that reality was going have some surprises in store for
me.....that being run over by a fully loaded beer truck might be an
equitable experience. I began to wonder what my towing and repair
bill was going to cost.
During
the course of several sessions with her she pointed to the need to
'get in touch with my feelings'. "I feel confused", I shot
back. "Help get rid of this so I can get on with life!", I
demanded.
Smiling
in a way that only a psychologist can she rubbed her hands together
and said, "You're on but it may not be what you expect."
"Whatever
it takes", I replied in my best macho squeak", I just want
out of this confusion."
"Cry",
she said.
"I
want to less confusion not more", I whined.
"Cry",
she said simply and flatly once more.
Having
paid good money I was loath to ignore the advice offered but even
more resistant to taking it. When I finally could stand the confusion
no longer I decided that it was time. I made an appointment with
myself and arranged a time to follow the directions she had given.
After about thirty minutes of willing myself to shed some tears I had
made little progress in my effort. Even more confused I returned to
her office to share my failure and seek a cure in another way. "I
can't take this crash and burn anymore and I can't seem to cry."
"Its a must", she explained. "No cry ....no fly."
Armed
with various ideas I returned home to continue my 'work'. I tried
imaging pictures of dead puppies and remembering promises made during
the last election. Nothing worked. In desperation I even tried
watching reruns of "the Dukes of Hazzard" in a desperate
attempt to be bored to tears.
My
lack of success was only desperation to the confusion I already the
emotional tapestry I already felt....I was becoming convinced that
crying was simply not a part of my nature. The floodgates
opened quite by accident as I came across a country music station
while driving home to farm. As the singer wailed about hurt and pain
something was triggered and my eyes began to fill with the tears that
had been so illusive.
My
first inclination was to be happy and celebrate my success but
considering the cost of the counselling I decided to stay miserable.
As my cheeks began to get wet I hit another pothole... a real one.
While I was changing the flat tire that resulted, I was exalted as I
realised that pissed off was another new feeling that I was now aware
of.
As
I continued to experiment with 'Whine and Twang' music the tears came
more readily. Unfortunately there is always the risk of to much of a
good thing. As with everything in my life there came a point where I
was not able to stop....the tears came freely and constantly. Even
the animals at the farm began to worry. My incontinent Black Lab
looked at me quizzically and more mournfully even though she had seen
me with tears in my eyes each time I had to clean up after her. The
barn cats increased their distance even though I was one who
regularly supplied them with sustenance. The horse twisted her head
and galloped away at full speed after she heard one anguished sob.
Reality was full of surprises just as my therapist had promised. I
knew there was no going back.
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